Assassin in Disguise
by The Eternal Good
Summary: Young Sofia Bright is a gifted and aspiring Assassin-to-be, or will she? After she discovers the only man who can teach her the trade is the Templar Grand Master, her conscience is torn between what she must do and what she wants to do.
1. The Beginning is the End

"The only victories which leave no regret are those which are gained over ignorance."

~~Napoleon~~

Hundreds of screams awakened the unusually dark night. Muffled footsteps turned into loud thumps and the icy sound of steel was soon accompanied by the deadly rings of wet stabs into flesh. Though I could not reach the area of despair, I recognized every sound like no other. We were too late. A faint smell of fire already penetrated my nostrils and only a few seconds later the fire was starting to arise above the trees, as though it tried to emblazon itself on the dark frame of the night. Commanding my horse into a gallop, I sprinted towards the hill which I knew to be no further than a furlong away. The poor horse neighed in protest, not keen onto running towards dangerous fire, but it obeyed nonetheless. His feet thundering upon the grassy road offered a relieving alternative to the horrifying sounds not far away. Permitting myself to glance behind me for a split second, I found my comrades tailing us towards the top of the hill. Earning their malicious glares, I knew the devastation of my birth village would not be the only prize I had to pay for my reckless behaviour of late. Pulling the graceful animal to a halt, I could see at last what the true destruction will be. Tears ran down soundlessly from my cheek. What have I done? How had I become so incompetent that I was willing to risk my family, although not by blood, but by heart, and all the precious moments I could have shared with them? If I had not been so careless...

'Let me help them,' I stated resolutely, trying to sound firmer than I felt, but it was nothing more than a weak attempt.

'There's nothing you can do any more, I'm afraid,' he stated matter-of-factly, 'We are fiercely outnumbered.' By the sound of it, he had decided not to punish me, for he deemed the wreckage of the village punishment enough.

'Outnumbered perhaps, but I outrank them in skill,' I tried, eyeing my inscrutable leader carefully. His brown eyes met my green ones, and, although the anger was still evident in his eyes, there was definitely a hint of compassion as well.

'I do not question your skill, Sofia. I merely doubt your state of mind.' BR 'Haytham, I can assure you...'

'No, you can assure me nothing.' My heart cringed somewhat from his harsh words. My look flinched back towards the excruciating scene in front of us. The men were shot down, their lack of gunpowder allowing them no chance against the Patriotic army. Women were taken captive, and the ones who tried to resist were shot down as well. Some held baby's to their breasts, trying to shield them from the fire and the visions of their dead fathers. I heard Haytham sigh next to me, drawing my attention back to him.

'We _shall _rescue the women and children later on. But for the men, there's nothing we can do.' His voice sounded reassuring again, comforting even . I nodded, unable to speak any longer, due to the sudden lump in my throat.

´Good,´ he murmered softly, throwing one final glance at the village before returning to me. ´Come now, we must not linger. Let us return to the safety of the fortress.´ Haytham waited for me to turn my horse around, anticipating every foolish move I could make if he lost sight of me. Instead of arguing with him, which I normally did, I did what he asked of me and motioned the horse to the path again. Fearing the judgment and scorn of the rest of the Templars more than ever, I dared not to look at Charles nor William, the only two remaining leaders of the Order. Instead, I nudged the flanks of the stallion gently, guiding him into a fast gallop toward the fortress we came from. The line of sight was already broken when I heard the last, heart tearing scream of a woman very close to my heart, the Clan Mother and then the unforgivable ringing of rifle, silencing the cry and all that was audible to me.


	2. Wakasanonni kashierite

**Author's note: before I start the second chapter of my story, I'd like to say that the story may seem a bit difficult to understand, because I love to play with time in my stories, but I promise to keep it simple the first few chapters. This chapter contains an introduction, just to know what drives her to become what she will become and to get to know her a little bit better. Enjoy!**

Wakasanonni kashierite

I can recall the first time I heard the mention of the word 'Assassin' as clear as if it were yesterday. Then, I had no idea that a single word would form such a drastic part of my life. Now, I wish I could turn back time with the knowlegde I have been cursed with ever since. I should have backed away, away from trouble, from death and despair. Of course, I can't say it only produced regrets, but regrets were the majority of its production.

I have grown up in a village not far from New York, in the frontier that lies on the outskirt of the city. Born to an English refugee, she gave birth to me in the only village willing to take in a woman so desperately looking for a place to belong. It were the Natives who granted her that place. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, she was given the opportunity to raise her child within the loving borders of the tribe. That is were she taught me the English language, while the Natives taught me their own. A particularly blonde girl with an English skin in Native clothes speaking the Mohawk language must have been an extraordinary sight for every trader or merchant to look at. The men brought me flowers, toys from the city, but I wasn't interested in those items. When I grew older, a somewhat younger merchant (or at least, that's what I thought he was at that time)had the nerve to bring me something peculiar, or at least for a girl. Seeing me playing with the boys rather than the girls, the man purchased me an expensive looking sword, produced especially for smaller people. It felt like I had finally found the right toy and, much to the dislike of the men and women of the tribe, particularly my mother, I also found that I was rather gifted with the pointy weapon. Although I was only able to practice when the merchant was around, because the men of the tribe thought it inappropriate for a woman to wield a blade, I was a quick student. When the men at last accepted me to be a bit manly in my ways, the merchant brought me another gift, his final present as it seemed later. I reckon I was about 10 years old, an age he deemed old enough to be suitable of telling an important secret. I can't recall every little detail of the scene, but he gave me a small wooden box, no larger than my hand, and told me to open it after my fifteenth birthday and that the artifact within would lead me to him. After that comment, I should have known he would not come back to me any more, perhaps I was too young to recognize the pain in his voice. Having no mother to look out for me any more, I hid the box carefully and did what he asked - back then I was young and more conforming when it came to requests. It had taken an enormous amount of effort not to open it, but when the day had come, the first thing I did that day was to open that mysterious little box. First I had to excavate it from the earth I had once put it in, but when I had done that...

I turned the box over, side to side, examining it closely for the first time. It seemed as though I viewed it for the first time, so differently it appeared in my memory. Strange how the brain can transform even the mere memory of a wooden box, which I thought I knew every curve, every piece of wood, into something completely divergent as it once seemed. The box was indeed wooden, but had a slight hint of red to it. It must have been expensive, particularly with the rich emblem carved on top of the upper lid. The emblem was one I had never seen before. Tracing my finger along the smooth curves, I vaguely recognized an A in it, but without streak connecting the steep lines. The gift itself helped no further to solve the mystery. It seemed like some piece of armor, judging from the size it should fit around a woman's wrist. Picking it up, I noticed it was decorated with the same emblem on the box. It consisted out of two parts, one with the emblem on it and supposedly it belonged on top of the wrist, and a slightly heavier part, which was to be wrapped underneath the wrist and onto the upper part. Weighing the smaller, but heavier part, I soon discovered it was heavier for a reason. Small as it was, it contained the most important part of the construction: a sharp blade was concealed in a soft piece of leather. The leather looked fresh and still smelled like cow.

'Sofia?'

Startled as I was, I knocked the box from my lap. Although I already knew the source of my shock, I searched for its eyes while hiding the little thing with my foot. Shoving the weapon behind my back, I softly scolded the young boy for interrupting me.

'Ratonhnhaké:ton, what have I told you?' But he rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed with my distant behaviour.

'Ratonhnhaké:ton, I warn you not to follow me on my birthday, I want to be left alone,' he mimicked me, speaking in a particularly high-pitched voice. His own voice was at the point of breaking, giving his strange act a funny sound. 'You're no fun, Sofia,' he continued in his own voice. Folding his arms, he gave me a defiant look. Torn between giving him a snarky remark, and keeping my newly aqcuired weapon a secret, I eventuelly softened toward the too curious boy.

'If you give me a moment, I'll be ready in a minute,' I said in a friendly tone, giving him my brightest smile. Unfortunately, Ratonhnhaké:ton was the only male I couldn't fool so easily. Partly because he knew me too well, but also partly because he was extremely perceptive. With his eyes, at least. His defiant features suddenly vanished, as his eyes followed the arm I held behind my back. His dark eyes gleamed with curiousity, and with curiousity came a borderless recklesness.

'What are you hiding?' he demanded, and his feet slowly guided him in my direction. Ugh, I had always known the boy was trouble...

'Nothing,' I answered too quickly, but the mere fact I was still helding my arm behind me betrayed my words. But what could I do? If the Clan Mother knew I held an unknown weapon in my possession, it would be taken away from me. Something that would surely happen if her grandson knew of my secret. But why was I so attached to a weapon I could not yet wield? Somehow I had the feeling this... blade was the beginning of something new, something adventurous. It had to mean something. But what? That I did not know, but I was more than eager to find out. And I could not let the Clan Mother's grandson, the boy she had once given me the responsibility for when we were young and both made motherless, spoil my exciting adventure.

'Oh'kwa:ri! Oh'kwa:ri' Men were shouting all around the village. The shouting was followed by heavy footsteps rushing through dry leaves which were, all too unfortunate, approaching us fast and steadily.

We had little time to register the words as we heared a bear roar a little distance from us. Staring wide eyed at each other for a moment, as though we were trying to process the newcoming and fast approaching danger. In the spur of the moment, I revealed the blade, considering if it was strong enough to kill the beast before it could kill us. It probably could, but I lacked the experience it required and there was no time I could strap it on my wrist before the bear found us. Rendering it useless for now, I tossed it in a nearby bush.

'What are you doing?' hissed the boy, who was visibly torn between running away and staying with me. He knew I would protect him at all cost, but was I able to slay a bear?

'I'm trying to save your arse, Ratonhnhaké:ton' I whispered fiercely at him. The bear could outrun us with us, so running was not an option. I scanned the area and found a perfect tree to climb in. The half Native followed my gaze, and without waiting for my order, he quickly sprinted into the tree.

'How are your aiming skills nowadays?' I questioned, forming a plan to kill the beast once and for all. He had killed one of our own a month ago, probably out of fear, but the bear was too dangerous towards men. Who knew who was next?

Ratonhnhaké:ton fell silent, trying to follow my train of thought. 'Are you out of your mind?' he exclaimed angrily as soon as he understood. 'Do you know no fear?'

'Perhaps I don't,' I hissed back, motioning him to take his bow. The thumping of a heavy, galloping animal approached quickly, giving the young boy no further chance to argue. I held my breath for a moment, sharpening my senses to the dangerous beast. I could already see the contour of it in the bushes, and its figure grew larger and larger. Ratonhnhaké:ton cursed softly in our mother tongue, but readied himself for the aim. Until then my head had been clear, knowing precisely what to do to kill the animal. But now it was coming closer and closer, my courage weakened. To judge from the size of it, it was definitely a male bear. When it caught sight of it, its pace slowed, finally finding a target to pursue. The bear was majestic, tall and incredibly muscled. If it hadn't been for the sharp claws and strong jaw plus teeth, I could have praised it only for its beauty.

'Ready when you are,' I said, hoping my voice would lessen the bears aggression. Some animals didn't mind human presence, as long as they could hear where you are.

'One moment,' whispered the boy, his voice retrained from the effort to pull the string on the bow. 'It has to come closer, the trees are blocking my sight.'

Before I could scold him for being a lousy hunter (you're a hunter, the trees are always in your sight!), the bear leapt closer, making me jump back in reflex. I reached for the dagger I kept on my belt, but knew the bear could crush my bones sooner than I could plunge the dagger in its throat. The bear stopped, only a few feet distanced the space between the large animal and me. It could destroy me with one slash of its paw, one bite with his razor sharp teeth. But it didn't. Instead, it stared me curiously in the eye. And I couldn't help but stare back. Why did it not kill me? Was it waiting for the right moment? But there couldn't be a better moment for it than this. It moved its snout to the side, as though it considered me for a moment. The fear I had felt for this animal had reduced to a minimum. Curiosity had replaced the fear and I became mesmerized by the giant, brown eyes of the creature in front of me. It tilted its head, like an invitation for me to reach my hand to its snout. I stretched my arm to it, but before I could reach it...

The sound of a snapping string and a loud growl snapped me back to reality. Ratonhnhaké:ton had aimed it in its eye, and succeeded. With another loud thump, the animal once so strong, fell helplessly to the ground and died instantly. But instead of feeling relieved, I felt horrible. Grief washed over me as I knelt down beside the dead body. Stroking the thick fur, I heared Ratonhnhaké:ton's feet land down behind me.

'It almost killed you, Sofia. Why grieve over its death?'

Cocking my head back, I glared at the boy.

'Every end of a life is worth grieving for. Whether it is a friend or a foe. And perhaps, most of the time the line isn't easily drawn. The bear did what it had to do to survive. Did it deserve to die because of that?'

The Clan Mother's grandson considered this for a moment.

'We all do whatever it takes to survive. Only you or the bear could live. The rest doesn't matter.'

Perhaps it didn't. My head felt a little light and my thoughts were getting clouded. Thankfully it didn't take long for the soldiers of the village to track down the mortal roar of the beast.

_' What were you thinking?_' the chief of war questioned us. '_Sofia, Ratonhnhaké:ton is your responsibility, what if he were killed?'_

I, as the elder of the two, am always assumed to know best. I exchanged a desperate look with the 12-year old boy. He sighed softly before addressing the furious man.

_'I'm sorry, it was my fault,' _he began. _'Sofia only tried to rescue us from the bear, and as you can see, she did a good job_.' He gestured toward the fallen bear. Witty as he was, he didn't dare to bother them with details, afraid the lie might be detected.

The chief gave me a stern look before examining the beast. '_Is that your arrow, Ratonhnhakéton?' _he said. He made no attemption to hide his admiration for the boy.

'_It sure is_,' confirmed Ratonhnhaké:ton, smirking widely. Some approving mumbling followed, giving him the opportunity to murmer in my ear: 'I'd like to know what you were hiding earlier in exchange for my help.' He murmered out of habit, the tribe did not understand English anyway.

I rolled my eyes. Of course Ratonhnhaké:ton did not just help me for its own sake, he helped me because he wanted to know something.

'I'll tell you later, now is not the time,' I whispered back, nodding towards the men. Before he could agree, I turned my attention to the weapon. Where did I put it? Ah, yes, the bush where I was sitting. I tiptoed to the bush, Ratonhnhaké:ton followed in my wake, something I was not particularly fond of. 'Stay with the soldiers,' I ordered, earning myself a glare from the boy, but he obeyed still. I regained my present sooner than I had thought, including the box it came with. I crouched down to pick the wooden thing up, and opened it to check if it was dirty. It was then I realised there was something else beside the blade itself that the merchant had wanted to give me. A little piece of paper contained a small note that would change my life forever.

_'Search for me in the city of New York. Look out for men in white robes: show them this blade and they will bring you to me. Be careful with it, it's a sign you belong to the Assassin Brotherhood, as so do I. Your father, Jonathan Bright.'_


	3. Chapter 3

**It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves - William Shakespeare**

´Sofia!´

Oh no. Pretend you haven´t heard him, Sofia, move on, and quickly!

´Sofia, wait, please! Where are you going?'

Too perceptive, that boy was. I've told you...

The rustling sound of breaking twigs and cracking leaves came closer. He deserved a proper goodbye after all the years I cared for him, looked out for him, fed him, taught him to read, to write, how to wield a bow... pretty much everything, honestly. I gave up avoiding him, and waited for him to catch up.

'What is it, Ratonhnhaké:ton?' I asked, watching the boy carefully. His cheeks were glowing red from the exercise, his eyes were widened in surprise, as if he had seen a spirit recently.

'You're leaving me, aren't you?' His voice cracked slightly and tears were starting to form in his eyes.

'I'm not leaving you per sé, I want to find my father,' I said, rather annoyed with his attitude. True, I was feeling bad about this, but he certainly didn't help the matter at all.

'Your father?' I had awoken his curiosity now. Looking at his pleading eyes, I knew I had to tell him the truth. I sighed, motioning him to sit down on the nearest trunk.

'Do you remember the man who used to trade fur in the village, and taught me how to wield a blade?' It didn't take him long to recall the man.

'You mean the tall blonde man, one of Johnson's men?' he asked, referring to the wealthy merchant who had been trading with the tribe for many years. The man pretty much owned the Valley, with a Johnson Fort, Johnson Hill, Johnson Mountain... The man didn't possess much creativity. But he was a valued friend of the Mohawk, always giving presents to the most prominent families and thus ensuring his friendship with the tribe. And he was the only merchant who spoke our native language, giving him an extra edge to win the favour of our people.

'Yes, that's the one,' I said, smiling when I remembered the strange, mysterious, blonde stranger. While it is custom for my people to give women a better education than the men, because the women were to lead the tribe, that education didn't include a blade and a bow. While reading was women only, fighting was men's privilege. However, I didn't care much for reading, economics and leading the people. All I wanted was to wield a blade perfectly, to gain muscle so I could beat every man at wrestling. But through the customs of the Mohawk, I was not allowed to follow my dreams. Until that man came along and took the responsibility to train me. Oh, how I loved my training sessions, and how much I missed them when he left. But that didn't matter now, I would find him again, sooner or later.

'How do you know how to find him?' Well, that was a crucial question indeed. With only a few instructions, it could take months, years even, to find him.

'I - I'm not sure. He left me a present and a note, but I do not know what to make of it.'

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned in deep thought. 'Do you mean the present you didn't want to show me last year?' he asked, a slight hint of accusation in his voice.

I rolled my eyes, pulling down the sleeve of my right wrist.

'Wow, what is that?' The boy hovered over my arm, examining the blade with fierce attention.

'I've found out it is a shield and a blade in one,' I said, showing him the blade side of the weapon. With a slight movement of my wrist, I activated the mechanism and the blade came out of its shell with a loud _swung_. The boy backed away a few inches in surprise, but when the moment of surprise was over, he couldn't get his eyes off the small but razorsharp blade.

'I want one too!' he exclaimed ecstatically.

'I don't know if there are more of them, but it said it was a sign that I belonged to the 'Assassin Brotherhood',' I said, retracting the blade, once again gaining Ratonhnhaké:ton's attention.

'Assassin Brotherhood?' he asked quizzically.

'I know, it raises more questions than it answers, doesn't it?' We smiled sympathically at each other for a moment, knowing the time was about to come I had to leave.

'The note also stated I had to find him in New York, and to look for men in white robes,' I sighed, realising the total hopelessness of my journey. But if my father had given me those hints, they must be powerful ones, right?

'New York is one big city,' stated the boy, remaining in thought for a moment.

'I know,' I whispered.

'Sofia, Ratonhnhaké:ton?' a distant voice called out for us. They were missing us already.

'Shit, I have to leave now,' I said, jumping on my feet immediately. The boy followed my action, staring toward the source of the voice.

'Will we see each other again, Sofia?' He broke his gaze to look at me pleadingly.

'Of course we will,' I said comfortingly, but then, I wouldn't know just how soon I was going to see him. I gave him one last hug, a hug I saw as our last one, and started to leave.

'Sofia, wait, just one more thing!'

Yes, Ratonhnhaké:ton?' I said impatiently, eyeing him with frustration written all over my face.

'If you manage to find my father, will you let me know?'

Of course, I could have waited for this question. But what were the chances I would find his father in search of mine? However, how could I answer negatively when looking in his big, brown, hopeful eyes? Instead, I smiled and said:

'Of course I will, Ratonhnhaké:ton. What was his name again?'

'Haytham Kenway, mother told me he's from England, a big, muscled man with superior fighting skills.' The boy smiled upon the thought, probably picturing a white, adult version of himself with broad shoulders and matching smile. Oh that Kanietí:io, always exaggerating good stories to make her son feel better.

'How can I forget. I'll let you know. For now, take care Ratonhnhaké:ton!'

With that, I climbed in a tree and flew from branch to branch, closing the distance with each step between my father and me.

*** Author's note: I've had the chance to investigate the Mohawk Indians and the real 'Templars' the last few weeks, and have decided to include some real historical details about them. Sometimes, these details do not match the AsC story, but I prefer the more complicated real storyline. And, of course, because I believe most AsC fans love different cultures (why else would you want to play such different characters? ;) I will include some historical facts about the Mohawk culture too.


	4. You only live once

Author's note: before I start the chapter, I'd like to note that it starts after the _first _chapter. With that, I need to stress it might be a confusing chapter, for I don't mean to stress the romance in the story, but more the adventure and the drama. But sometimes love is all the drama you need. And Sofia is only human and has to love someone, doesn't she? Enjoy!

"**You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough." ~~ Mae West**

´Sofia?'

Since the massacre on my village, all I wanted to be is alone. Alone, means myself in the company of various animals. Their presence seemed to soothe me, ease the pain in my heart and fill the enormous hole in there, if it were only temporary.

'Sssst, Mr. Spada, do not let him know where we are,' I whispered softly to the small, but extremely hairy pomerian. Its brown eyes stared at me, as though it understood. This time I had found peace in the stables of Charles Lee's horses, and practically kidnapped his precious dog for a moment. Or two. The horse didn't mind my intrusion of his box, and stared at me whilst grinding the hay between his teeth. The dog wagged its tail, nudging its snout under my arm. It was its way of asking permission to snuggle underneath my arms and on my lap. I smiled, granting the dog his will as I rose my arm. The animal was warm and soft, and it relaxed my nerves instantly.

'Sofia, I know you are in here,' a rather annoyed Haytham announced. 'Do you want me to check every box?'

I rolled my eyes, knowing I'd better call out to him. Agitating Haytham is truly not the best idea.

'I'm here, Haytham,' I said, petting the dog through its long hair. It closed its eyes contently. I secretly wished men were just as easy to please as their canine counterparts. And certainly one man in particular.

'Why you don't get along with Charles has been a complete mystery to me,' said Haytham, closing the heavy steel door behind him as he entered the box. The horse rose his head to meet the tall man, and Haytham pet the white animal in response.

'The fact that we both love animals doesn't mean we see eye to eye. He is not a good man,' I responded, watching the Grand Master carefully as he sat down on the straw covered floor with a weary look. I've avoided Haytham the last month, hoping to postpone his speech. Frankly, I had no idea what he had prepared for me. Never before had I failed him to this extent. Never had I betrayed his, normally, fragile trust. Perhaps that was another reason I avoided him: I'll never forget his face when we arrived at Fort Johnson after the attack. He couldn't look at me, but when he did, he simply could not hide the disappointment he felt. I did truly hurt him. And in effect, that hurt me.

I fiddled with my ring as I waited for Haytham to scold me or defend Charles, like he always did. The silver ring on my right ring finger had been made especially for my inauguration as a Master Templar, engraved with blood red rubies to form the Templar cross. And now I was waiting for Haytham to take back my position, losing everything I had worked so hard for.

'Whether he is a good man or not is not for you to decide,' reproached Haytham, folding his arms over his chest.

I was about to make a sassy remark, but bit my tongue. Instead, I studied the Grand Master's features for any signs that might make me more aware of his intentions. Up until now, his face had been completely neutral, but the growing smirk told me to relax somewhat.

'What is it, have you lost your tongue?' he teased, knowing all too well I'd like to discredit his second hand whenever I have the chance.

'We both know you haven't come to sit in a horse stable just to discuss Charles his morality,' I said. I couldn't postpone it any longer. My nerves were going to be the death of me if he didn't tell me his final judgment. My hands were starting to tremble, earning me an accusing look from Mr. Spada. Resting my head on the cold wall behind me, I gave Haytham a confident look, trying to mask any feeling that was boiling on the inside. Fear, regret, utter hopelessness and a new sense of loneliness. And Haytham….

'No, I haven't,' he confirmed. He stared down for a moment, as though he were searching for words. Haytham did not know what to say. Well, that was something I'd never seen. 'How are you?' he concluded, his expression a mixture of forced seriousness and true sympathy. I snorted loudly in response, ridiculing his question.

'How did you feel, one month after you'd witnessed your father's death, the kidnap of your sister, the murder of your staff and the flames raising from your place of birth?' I snapped, temporarily forgetting my awful position. 'And on top of that, what was it like for you when you found out it was your own mentor who killed your father?'

Haytham's eyes grew smaller. ' You can't keep throwing your father's death in my face every time I'm angry with you, Sofia. I've told you of his death several years ago to relieve myself from the feelings of guilt, and here you are exploiting them.'

'Tell me then, after all those years of your father's passing and your knowledge of Birch betrayal, did it ever stop nagging? Did you never wonder what your life would be like with him, if he hadn't been taken so soon? Did you never wish you could see him one last time, just to be with him? Did the void he left behind ever fill, making you feel less empty inside? And since the brutal slaughter of the people I grew up with, I feel as though my heart has been ripped out of my body.' The pitch of my voice was getting higher and higher. All the while the Grand Master remained calm, but his pouted lips told me he was not pleased with my temper. Considering me for a moment, he decided to hoist himself up, straighten his clothes and lean against the wooden wall. This way he could look down on me, which made me feel really uncomfortable.

´There are many possible paths to walk in your life. No matter the amount of choices you have, you can only choose one. Sometimes that path turned out to be bumpier than you had expected, longer perhaps. And all too often you had wished you´d taken another split in your path. Sometimes you find yourself lost and unable to follow the lines. Then you start looking over your shoulder and you see things that cannot be unseen. Those events will dwell in your heart forever, making it impossible for you to journey on.´ The tall man had moved closer to me, which gained the distrust of my little friend on my lap. It started to growl, but Haytham ignored the dog. He offered me his hand to stand up. I took it without hesitation, a move I would regret one moment later. He did not just pull me on my feet, he also pulled me closer to him, so close that our chests touched. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck rose, making me shiver all over my body. Releasing my hand, he put one hand on my back to bring me even closer and another to my ear, where he stroke the hair away to gain access to whisper in my ear. He deliberately touched my ear and neck softly, touches I, to my own disgust, have to admit I enjoyed. When he brought his lips to my ear and grazed the delicate skin, I couldn´t help but whimper. I brought my hands to his chest for support, because my shakes legs were no longer trustworthy.

´Some people linger in their emotions,´ he began softly, while his left hand travelled slowly to my neck. ´Those are the ones who will die full of regret. But there are other who, though the pain in the heart remains, learn to find their path again and to look forward, always. It is not easy, and there are moments the heartache will prevail, but even then, we must carry on.´ His hand traced its way to my head, playing with my hair softly as he spoke. ´That is one of the two lessons I have for you today.´

´What is the other?' I asked foolishly, taking in the musky scent of the bare skin of his neck. I felt his lips twitch into a smirk, sending a hint of fear down my spine. His grasp on my hair strengthened, which caused me to whimper, but this time from pain.

'Don't you _ever _dare to disobey my orders again. If you do, I'll hunt you down personally and don't think your death will be a comfortable one.' Now I was slowly becoming aware of his right hand. It had found its way to my throat, and the fingers encircled my throat. He could kill me before I had the chance to bring my own blade into combat. Mr. Spada began to bark and jump against the Grand Master, but to no avail. He kicked the dog back, causing the small animal to shriek in pain.

'Haytham, don't,' I croaked, feeling the cold wall behind my back. I started to breathe heavily, fighting against the cold grip around my throat.

'Don't what?' he asked rather amusedly.

'Don't kill me,' I begged. This caused Haytham to leave my ear for what it was and, whilst pushing my back against the will with his own body, started to stare me in the eyes. I tried to avoid his gaze, but his other hand grabbed my chin to steer it in his direction. His eyes were the coldest I had ever seen.

'Do you fear me, Sofia?'

'Yes,' I breathed without thinking. That, and a lot other things too.

'Good. I thought that, when we met for the first time, I'd already given you a preview of what would happen once you betrayed me. Don't make me kill you, not just for your own sake, but for mine also.'

With that, he released my aching throat, allowing me to breath normally again. Caressing his hand along the red marks, as if he tried to make an apologizing gesture, he stepped back to allow me more space.

'Charles always said you'll be trouble. Too beautiful, too manipulative, too smart. I wish he was wrong, but you keep proving him right.' I stared at him, not knowing where he was going to. It seemed he had no point to make, or perhaps it was a point in itself. Turning his back on me, he opened the box and gestured me to leave before he did. I obeyed without question, though I had preferred loneliness above his company for the moment. Tears were starting to draw closer, and I did not want him to see me cry.

We walked towards the chambers in silence, except the tripling sound of Mr. Spada and our own feet, and when he passed his own room to stay beside me, I told him I could find my room without his help rather boldly. He ignored my statement, probably hearing the anxiety in my voice, and opened the door to the hallway.

'Thank you,' I said softly, taking the chance to gain some advantage on him. But when I reached the door to my room, he blocked the entrance easily by extending his arm over the doorpost. The sudden closeness made me flinch, staring at him in fear. It made Haytham sigh in annoyance. He gave me a tired look.

'Don't fear me if there is nothing to fear from me,' he said, motioning me to come closer. I stepped closer hesitantly. I have learned to trust him completely the past 8, 9 years. But all that trust had been thrust away in merely 5 minutes. I crossed my arms over my chest in a protective manner and stopped when there was barely space between us left. I raised my chin to look him in the eyes defiantly.

We stared in each other's eyes, both looking for answers we could not find. What did he want from me? Did he truly expect me to forget his fingers around my throat? The mere idea of it made me nauseous to the core of my body. When he raised his hand to touch my lips I did not dare to cringe from the contact. The soft stroke was probably meant as a reconciling gesture, but all I wanted was for him to disappear and leave me be.

'I want to see you in the morning. I've got a mission for you you're yearning to accomplish.'

'What do you know about my yearnings, Haytham?' I spat back, shoving his hand from my face. But he smiled and leaned closer once again.

'Enough,' he said, before turning away. 'Have a good night, although you most likely won't.'

God, how I hated his guts. Groaning, I opened the door, but before I could enter I heard Haytham one last time:

'You ought to bring that thing back to Charles, don't you?'

'What I ought to do and what I want to do, are two very different things.' I scooped Spado in my arms before giving the Templar one last glare, and shut the door behind me violently, turning in for a sleepless night.

**P.S.: I like reviews, but I'm not that kind of person who answers them in the chapter. I think that is just silly and distracting from the story. Just know I take advice with me while writing a chapter **


	5. Chapter 5

**Before you read this chapter, know this chapter will be told from Haytham's POV. Yes, I found it more interesting, and for so far I know, the rest of the story will be in Sofia's POV. And forgive me for my tardiness, study comes first.**

**Enjoy!**

"Haytham?!"

A desperate Charles Lee called to his Grand Master.

The elder Templar had just started to write in his journal, an act which mollified his nerves. Haytham sighed, dreading his right-hand's entrance, before answering in a low tone:

"Yes, Charles?"

Charles burst in, dragging a slender figure-forcibly, judging from their jerking motions. Dressed in a long black mantle, they vaguely reminded Haytham of an Assassin-were it not for their garment's dark colour, and rabbit fur instead of a red belt, indicating hunting skill.

Curious, Haytham tried to peek under the hood, but they flinched away from his gaze.

Before Haytham could ask Charles about his intentions, the latter broke into a rant. "I found this girl lurking outside the fortress walls. Hunting for small animals, she says." His cheeks were burning red, and he looked positively bizarre.

Haytham shook his head in disbelief. "Peace, Charles. I understand your concern, but you'll need to collect yourself before we continue." He addressed the girl. "Will you take down your hood? It would make conversation so much easier."

She stiffened, weighing her options. Then she seemed to realise she didn't have any, only the illusion of them; of everyone present, she had the least authority. She reached for her hood, slowly-as if consciously building their anticipation-and brought it down. Haytham guessed she was around sixteen years.

Her long braid and feathers made Haytham recall his long-lost lover. Other than that, she displayed no native features. Her nose was small, her skin would not have misfit a noblewoman, and her bright green eyes reminded Haytham of clear emeralds. A small scar above her eyebrows decorated her otherwise flawless face.

"Can we have your name, to begin with?" said Haytham.

"Sofia Deryn Bright," she stated clearly.

She appeared to be telling the truth._ What an odd girl_, thought Haytham. Her introduction seemed unnatural in the English culture, awkward even. Charles kept glaring at his hostage, although he threw Haytham an occasional glance to measure his superior's opinion. But Haytham kept his expression unreadable.

"Bright, hmmm?" wondered Haytham aloud.

The name was not unusual, but it reminded him of someone. And 'Deryn'-Haytham remembered its meaning from his father's attempts to teach him Welsh.

His gaze went to her arms, and his suspicion proved correct-a Hidden Blade was attached to her left wrist. Knowing Charles, Haytham suspected he had no clue what he'd brought inside the fort. He intended to keep it that way.

"Charles, would you mind giving Miss Bright and me a moment alone?"

Haytham's calm failed to soothe Charles. No matter how friendly his Grand Master sounded, a request was an order. Releasing Sofia with a confused look in his eyes, he nodded curtly and left the room.

Sofia's small hands fiddled with her thick golden-blonde braid, betraying her nervous state of mind. Her angelic face remained neutral, though her large eyes scanned the area-probably for exits or weapons.

"Please, take a seat." He waved to the chair opposite, and she took the chair without hesitation.

She studied him intently, looking fragile in a chair made for tall men.

"Would you like a glass of wine for the nerves?" he asked gently.

Haytham didn't know what the outcome of their conversation would be. He desired no harm for Sofia, if possible. She seemed an ordinary girl, no matter how extraordinary her looks. Haytham had never liked killing, especially when the victims were children.

"No. Thank you kindly," she said, sounding more resolute than her body language told him.

"A pity, really. You're missing the most exquisite wine the Spanish vineyards have to offer." Haytham reached to pour himself some wine.

Perhaps he needed the wine more than he wished he did. He needed the conversation to be over quickly, and to accomplish that, he needed to get to the point. Taking a sip and setting the glass back on the desk, he began.

"Enlighten me how an Assassin's daughter stumbled upon a Templar fort. It's a bit too convenient, isn't it?"

She blinked in surprise, but otherwise showed no signs of bewilderment. On the contrary, her eyebrows furrowed and her full lips contorted in a grimace.

"Templars?" she whispered.

Now it was Haytham's turn to be taken aback. He instantly regretted being that straightforward with someone he didn't know.

"Templars, yes. Who did you think we were?" Haytham reached for the glass again, needing it more than ever.

"I thought…I did not know…"

The poor girl could no longer utter a comprehensible sentence.

"All right, forget what I said," he tried desperately. "Why don't we start from the beginning?"

She nodded.

"Good," sighed Haytham, already exhausted by the conversation. "What were you hoping to find around my fort? The wilderness is no place for a girl such as you…"

"A girl such as me? I fared better than your henchmen. I wasn't attacked by a wolf pack, because I'm not stupid enough to disturb them in their den."

Sofia was regrowing her spine. Her cheeks burned in anger, and her fists clenched. Her stubborn, unladylike air was reminiscent of his sister. If he could teach her how to handle her temper, she would make an excellent addition to the Order.

Alarm bells rang inside Haytham's head. An Assassin's child converted by a Templar Grand Master, after the latter killed the Assassin?

His history had absolutely nothing in common with her's. At the time, he didn't know Jonathan Bright had children. But would he have avoided the man's death if he knew he had a daughter? He bit his lip to prevent himself from considering other well-known albeit irrelevant facts.

"Perhaps I'll tell William to keep away from them," he said pleasantly.

She followed William to the fortress. Her father spied on William for years, pretending to be a trader; assisted him on numerous frontier travels. Sofia must know about their alliance, but obviously not the details. This could work to Haytham's advantage, if he knew to play the game well…

The blonde certainly had a knack for bringing him off-topic. Leaning forward, he repeated the question.

"Why are you here, Sofia?"

She looked startled when he used her name-exactly the result Haytham wanted. Hopefully she would speak the truth.

"I'm on a quest, looking for my father-Jonathan," she began carefully. But the more she spoke, the more confidence she acquired. "I never knew him. And until recently, I did not know I have met him on several occasions. He left me…directions, clues, of where to find him. But they are too vague, and led me nowhere. That was when I remembered he used to travel with Sir Johnson. I was hoping that his trail might bring me clearance."

A terrible storyteller. She left out one important detail: Jonathan left her the Hidden Blade residing on her wrist; small wonder she never got into contact with Templars before, as she must have shown the thing around to ask for him. Haytham pitied her. But now he had to play a part to gain her trust.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid your father left William's service years ago. I can assure you William has no leads on his whereabouts."

Sofia's face broke, making Haytham feel more guilty. He'd told_ half_ the truth-Jonathan truly _had _left (albeit because he was at the bottom of the ocean). She was trying her best not to cry, thinking all hope lost. How could Haytham bring himself to extinguish that very_ last piece_?

The scar on Haytham's abdomen was testament to the fact Jonathan's death hadn't been easy to bring about. Judging from her stealth, she'd inherited his wit. If she possessed even the slightest amount of his _skill_, Haytham would be satisfied.

"You know him?" She spoke calmly, but her hands-which were trembling on his desk-betrayed her.

_I _knew_ your father_, corrected Haytham. "Yes."

"What is he like?" she asked delightedly.

Haytham decided to humour her, for it must've been something she'd wondered her entire life; she must've lost her mother rather early, or the mother had swept all her questions under a rug.

"Honorable." _How cliche_, Haytham thought with disgust. Couldn't he come up with anything better? "He was a close friend of William's, particularly fond of his children." Now he knew why-Sofia was around their age. "Kind, extraverted, clever. But above all, an expert on every weapon he laid his hands on." _A dangerous enemy. _

Sofia listened to every word, but when he mentioned 'weapon', her eyes widened, and a smile tugged on her plump lips.

"Are you a skilled fighter like him?" she blurted out.

"Yes, I am. But the real question is, Sofia-are you?"

She clasped her hands nervously, features distorted into a grimace. Had she known Haytham was dying to ask her this? Either way, she seemed to recognise the urgency of the situation.

"He trained me when he came to trade with my village. After he left, I resumed my training with the chief of war. I believe I am fairly experienced, but truly skilled…no."

Great. She raised more questions than she answered.

"You were raised in a native village?" asked Haytham.

"I was," she replied uncertainly.

Most people were rather…condescending towards the native culture, but the Templar Order had nothing to do with that preposterous attitude. Two of its members were married to Mohawk women, and Haytham himself had loved one to his core.

"How intriguing," said Haytham, more to himself than her.

"I guess that's one way to put it," she said, folding her arms.

Haytham decided to ignore that remark, for he had more pressing matters on his mind. How could he persuade the daughter of his greatest enemy to join forces with him?

"How would you like to become skilled, Sofia? I see a fire in you that I have only seen in the bravest men, the most accomplished fighters in the world. I think you have the potential to become one of us."

Sofia squinted, keeping her features inscrutable for a change. "What interest am I to you. . .?"

"Haytham Edward Kenway is my name; you can call me Haytham," he said, adding his middle according to her own introduction.

"All right, what interest am I to you, Haytham?" she said, a little smile playing along her lips. "Can you help me pursue my goal of finding my father; I believe you said you have no leads whatsoever?"

"Indeed," Haytham said grudgingly. He required a good reason for her to stay. "For all we know, Jonathan might have crossed the seven seas by now." Haytham took a deep breath. "My Order comprises thousands of contacts around the world; if we can't find him, no one can."

Sofia had shifted forward in her chair, leaning an elbow on the desk to support her head. Haytham felt his heart quicken in anticipation. Light from the candle on the wall shone on her face, casting shadows around her eyes through her lashes.

Suddenly, Haytham remembered why Templars normally didn't allow women inside their ranks: they may distract the men from their duties. But he would take that risk, for he sensed she'd play a vital role in the Order's development.

"What is it you want in return?" she asked, after some time. "Surely no man alive has offered his services for an altruistic purpose other than aiding his family. And even then, a normal family provides him love and care."

Haytham hadn't anticipated doubt, because he'd deemed her too young to appreciate his Order's true meaning. Perhaps he underestimated her.

"All I request for now is your trust and loyalty. I'd like to continue your training. I promise I'll make it worth your while."

Licking her lips, she thought this proposal through. At last she spoke: "I accept. Something tells me I can trust you, and a little training might come in handy."

Smiling broadly, Haytham stood and outstretched his hand toward her. She followed his example, wondering what he would do.

"In my culture, when two people have come to terms with each other, they shake hands," said Haytham pleasantly, marvelling at her confused expression as she hesitantly grabbed his powerful hand. Hers was soft and almost unrealistically small.

"Excellent." He let go as he sat down again. "Welcome to my humble fort."

His newly-acquired apprentice nodded, and continued to stand.

"You must be tired from your journey. The guest room is across the hall. I'll have a room prepared in the morning, but I'm afraid that's all I can do at present."

"I will be all right."

Her hand lingered on the doorknob. Slowly, she turned around, mouth already forming a question. "How did you know my father was an Assassin? Who are they?"

"Your Hidden Blade," he said. "They are accessories to every self-respecting Assassin. And as I recall, 'Deryn' means 'bird' in Welsh. It is custom for Assassins to name their children after birds. I'll answer the last question tomorrow."

She smiled, and Haytham felt his heart skip a beat. It was truly mesmerizing.

"What does 'Haytham' mean, then?"

Haytham had been correct; she was perceptive.

"'Young eagle'," he said, smiling too.

He had to be cautious in future; he might grow too attached if he didn't keep himself in check. Attractive as she may have been, Haytham could only imagine her bewitching beauty in five or ten years.

Her joyful eyes locked with his. Then, after those torturous seconds, she nodded a good-bye and left.


	6. The Chase is better than the kill

**First, I want to apologize for the **_**extreme **_**delay. I believe it has been 8 months. I had a lot of personal problems to cope with, plus college. And I had no idea what to write next. Ironically I had finished this chapter in 4 hours or so. I look forward to your reactions, because the chapter is a tad darker than I had intended. Mind the gap between the last chapter. And I still have to run it passed my beta reader, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes in the grammar or spelling. If she's still interested in reading, that is :( **

**Enjoy!**

**The chase is more exciting than the kill**

It was nighttime in Boston, May the seventh of the year 1774. Little did I know that that particular calm night would change the course of my life as a Templar forever. And it began so quiet. I was accompanying Haytham to meet William near one of William's trading posts and was keeping guard with a few of William's men to secure the premises where Haytham, William and a few others I did not recognize were discussing new sources of incomes. Haytham had wanted me to join the conversation, since he required that I gained knowledge about all objectives of the Templar Order, but I kindly declined. I never had a head for economics and unfortunately never will, and besides, William is doing a great job with our earnings and spendings. Haytham would have to find another successor for William, I had my eyes set on another position within the Order.

I was having a few laughs with the guards when it happened. We were huddled closely together (though the night was calm, the breeze still made us shiver) Thomas, a jolly fellow who drank a little too much, collapsed to the ground for no apparent reason. I knelt beside him, checking if he could breath and that was when I felt it. Not only was my hand stained in blood the moment I touched his chest, a small but sharp dagger was buried deep inside it, piercing his heart. Thomas was dead almost instantly.

A pang of dread shot inside my brain. Someone was throwing daggers at us, and unfortunately that man had quite an aim.

'We're being attacked,' I breathed as another guard looked over my shoulder to the now dead man.

'What?' he asked in disbelief. I tried to figure out the angle from which the dagger came, but then I saw another dagger being thrown into our direction. I could barely warn the others as I ducked, avoided the dagger with success. It missed me by a hair.

I followed the source of the dagger and saw a white cape finding refuge in the shadows. I recognized the cape immediately, though I had never seen one in my life. The tails of Assassins I had heard were pretty definite on their costumes. If I wouldn't tail him, I could soon bury another fellow Templar next to Thomas. So, out of instincts, I ran after him, leaving my Templar colleagues behind in shock. Their horrified expressions matched my own emotions, but I could not let that take the upper hand.

Soon I was climbing building, jumping over ledges, into haystacks and wells, but I wasn't getting any closer. The man kept the same momentum as me, making it difficult to outrun him. When he threw a ladder on the ground before I could even attempt to climb it, I knew I could not defeat him. Not in the usual manner, at least. My legs felt heavy, my ankles weak, and yet I had to catch him still. When I noticed some curious Red Coats staring at me in wild amazement, a plan soon entered my mind.

'Excuse me, miss, are you all right?' one of them yelled in my direction. I must have looked ghastly. Red dots always decorated my face if I had run the lungs out of my body and the wind had made a mess out of my hair. The few pieces of hay captured in that messy bun probably attributed to an image of total madness. I wondered how willing they were to help a damsel in distress?

'Help me,' I said softly, barely able for them to hear. I quickly saddened my features and limbed into their direction. And they came running to my aid. The redcoats were very willing indeed. There were six of them and I observed them in a flash. None of them wore the clothing of a captain. These were just plain soldiers. To my regret I had nothing else to work with. They were all I got for the moment.

The men were gentle, giving me their shoulders to support my weight. One of them gave me water whilst they whispered soothing comments and petted my shoulder. Their helpfulness would be heart-breaking, weren't it for the nagging fact that I had to use them in a way that would probably get them killed. And if it didn't _get _them killed, I had to do so myself.

'Do we have a seat prepared for this young lady?'

I did not bother to know who had asked that question as the whole ordeal began to take too long. If I wanted to catch the Assassin, I had to bring some action.

'There was a man – a man dressed in white…' None of the men were actually listening, too damn busy with making a good impression. Why do men not understand that listening is the best way to show a girl you care? I grunted, saying a little more loudly: 'He killed one soldier, on the roofs. Undoubtedly killed another, but he fell off the edge, couldn't see if he made it or not…'

Now they stopped and finally paid attention. While it was true that the Assassin had pushed one of theirs over the edge, I was the one who had killed the other out of fear that he might follow me. I have a very bloody Hidden Blade to proof it.

'What did you say, miss?' The gentle voice came from my left. I looked down, not eager to see the face of the man that was about to get murdered because of me. I have enough faces already that haunt me in my sleep.

'The man who did this to me me'- I pointed to my scraped leg that looked far worse than it was – 'came from above after he had killed a colleague of yours.' Their response was quiet and they kept staring blankly at me. My patience was wearing thin. If they did not act soon and proceeded to hunt the Assassin down, they missed their chance – no, I was about to fail my main objective; to pursue every threat to the Templar Order and take it down. In order to continue my hunt and augment the chance to eliminate the Assassin, I sobbed loudly. My whole body shook from the effort to make it seem convincing. 'What if he kills more innocents, God knows what he will do!' I put my face in my hands and therefore could not see what the impact of my sudden breakdown was. There was a small silence as they got a moment to process this information and make a decision.

'In which direction did he run off to?' Ah, that was the question I had been waiting for! Finally, Hallelujah!

'There,' I murmured, accompanying my directions with a gesture- making sure they took the right path. 'He seemed to move towards the docks.' Now this was just mere speculation, but if I were the Assassin I would escape through the harbor and thus assumed he would act like me. I may be completely incorrect, but I had to try, didn't I?

Soon enough five men went looking for my target, whilst one of the redcoats stayed behind to take care for me. Something I was not pleased about. That guy, named Jackson or something, was obviously left behind for a reason. He was by far the shiest of the six men, skin and small, and probably the youngest one too. A small wonder he had actually made it to become a soldier, or had the English become so desperate for manpower that they allowed even the most unlikely men into their folds?

Jackson gave me very nervous look.

'What would you have me do, miss? Can I bring you home, perhaps?'

He blushed for no apparent reason and had trouble looking me into the eyes. When he did, he couldn't stop blinking repeatedly and quickly left my gaze again. I was wondering if he was right in the head.

'Well,' I began, trying to come up with a plan to get rid of poor little Jackson. Initially, I had planned to kill the man, but he seemed so fragile that his murder seemed too easy. 'I do not have a home or anywhere else to go to in Boston.' Not true, but I couldn't care. 'Would you mind escorting me to a bar?' Very unusual choice, and Jackson seemed to reckon that too. Finally his gaze could linger on me for more than a few seconds, and there was some hint of disbelief in his eyes. 'What, I need something to drink!' I explained myself, and leaned on the man for some fake support. He just nodded and linked my arm with mine. Then he guided me to the nearest café, one known as 'The Talking Moustache'. The owners must have been pretty drunk when they had come up with that name. The café was famous for its beer and was usually pretty busy; and so it was now. The place was filled with all sorts of men, and only one type of women: the lesser dressed ones. Jackson and I made quite a pair, one a soldier on duty, and a woman who was dressed in man's clothes. Luckily the place was pretty dark and we found a table near the entrance almost completely shrouded in the shadows. Precisely what I needed. When Jackson left to get us something to drink, I quietly left when I was certain he could no longer lay eyes on me from the bar. Once outside, I stole a horse from the stable (which would probably get the stableboy fired, but I did not have the luxury to worry over his position) and rode towards the docks.

I might not have found the Assassin over the loud galloping sounds of the horse's hoofs, but when both the animal and I were startled over a falling body, I knew I had been very lucky. Quickly calming the horse, I dismounted it and tied it to the nearest beam. By the sounds of clashing steel and yelling men, I calculated that there was little time to climb onto the roof to finish the Assassin myself. I found the perfect building to climb and jumped closer and closer to the source of the commotion.

And there they were, two men clad in red fighting a gigantic man in white – although his cloak was red in some place, as it was drenched in blood. Partly others blood, but mostly his. The man had lost his momentum as he jerked forward, fending the lesser skilled but healthier Brits. His face was still hidden underneath his hood, though a pained expression was to be seen. His teeth were clenched and his nose wrinkled. He was not going to last much longer. I approached the three men slowly, maneuvering around the respectable amount of bodies. There were 6, 7, 8 perhaps. That meant the Assassin had caused quite the disturbance and had attracted many guards; or 'my' soldier had attended the others and thus brought them along. Whatever it was, the Assassin had slain enough men and I was not surprised he was at the end of his powers.

I stayed hidden in the shadows. The man was trying to lure his attackers into a trap, forcing them dangerously close to the edge of the roof. These two men were lucky – or unlucky, that depends on your point of view- to face the Assassin when his energy was all but gone. Neither of them would have stood a chance against him if he were in total control of his weapons. He wielded his sword with a certain expertise, but his drained energy made him miss the required accuracy, allowing his victims to avoid his thrusts just in time. Their dance of death seemed so slow from a distance, but I knew the Assassin was trying to calculate his moves on his opponents actions, and those two were not the fastest persons I'd ever seen. Then the Assassin suddenly found a weak spot in one man, and drove his sword into his chest whilst fending off the other with his Hidden Blade. Then he withdrew his blade and kicked the other from the roof with the last of his strength. The redcoat screamed for a short period of time before he hit the stones beneath him with a loud but sickening _crack___and I knew his whole body had been broken. Then there was nothing to hear, except for the loud breathing and panting Assassin. He tried to find support against the wall, but eventually almost fell against it. He made such a pitiful sight. He crawled on his knees, his hands resting on the wall. His impressive chest heaved heavily, trying to catch his breath. His hands were bloody. I considered him for a moment or two before approaching him. It was such a pity; an enormously talented and intimidating man was about to die because he fought for different ideals than mine. But I was trying, no – struggling to relieve myself of the newfound respect for this Assassin. I had to kill him, for as long as they lived, the Templars could never realize their dreams, _our _dreams. Assassins create chaos in our neatly structured society, tearing us down, destroying the right goal for mankind. Every society is viable, and I had become convinced this was the right path to take.

The Assassin looked up at me as he became aware of my footsteps. Instead of the anger I had expected, he chuckled, throwing me off guard.

'Well, well, looks like you have cornered me at last,' he said amusedly, but his gasps for air diminished the effect he sought.

I gripped the sword hanging from my left side, ready to silence the man for eternity. The man, seeing my intention, seemed startled from my haste to finish the job.

'Wait, please wait.'

Wait for what? For other Assassins to come to his aid?

'There is something I need to tell you.' He pushed himself upright so he could look at me, and took off his hood to have a better sight. The man was just a normal person to behold. Dark-haired, older skin, blue-eyes and the worst part – his eyes were friendly. He examined me before his cracked lips forced a smile on his face.

'Your father was right after all, you have grown into a breathtaking young woman, just like he predicted.' Then his look went to my left hand. 'If only you were wearing a different symbol on that ring.' His smile faded, like he was imagining my future, seeing things I could not possibly dare to think of. Something gurgled deep inside his throat and the pained expression returned. I took a step closer, still with my hand on my sword.

'I'm already dying, beautiful Sofia Bright. If you would be so kind to end this quickly, I appreciate that.'

I inspected his face, his hands, his clothing. He was dying, the pool of blood forming underneath his body was a testament to that matter. What surprised me, was that I was _not _surprised that he had known my name. Father had told his brothers about me, shared his most precious secret with them. And I was the cause of his friend's death today. Was about to finish him, release him of his pains. How would Father had thought of me, if he could see me? I shook the thought out of my head, but the Assassin seemed to possess the ability to read minds.

'Isn't it just ironic?' he panted softly, hoarse. 'Your mother took you into hiding, keeping you from everything that is either Assassin or Templar, and especially to conceal you for Haytham Kenway. She was afraid he might take you away from her or your father. Kill you to hurt your father. But in the end he took you away from us in a far worse manner than we had ever feared – you became his weapon, a Templar.'

A single tear fell from my eyes. I knew the man was right, but only in his limited perspective. I had become a Templar out of free will, because I believe in the Order. I knew how disappointed my parents would be, I had always known that. But as he said it like that, so openly and loudly, I finally realized I had hidden the feelings for their disapproval. I inhaled deeply, trying to calm myself.

The Assassin beckoned me closer, searching for something in his pocket. I withdrew my sword in a reflex, hoping I might reach him sooner in case he was about to draw a pistol. He didn't. He held out a little leather bag with coins, judging by the sounds of it.

'Please, bring this to my family.' His voice was weakening. Perhaps I didn't have to bring him the final hit after all. The bag fell out of his hands and his hands fell to his sides. He collapsed to the floor and rolled on his back, so he could watch me one last time. His lips were still moving and I heard him whisper his lasts sentences but I had to reach him in order to hear it. '…. Next to the baker, in the small white house. Please, I know you have a kind heart…' The last words were barely audible. Then his head rolled to the side, his eyes wide opened and his mouth still ready to speak, but there were no words left. A loud exhale could be heard and he became still.


	7. Progress

If there is no struggle, there is no progress.

**~~Frederick Douglass~~**

**For the sake of continuity, it is November 1770. **

´Mrs. Lee?'

There I stood on the doorstep of that beautiful mansion, the estate currently occupied by the Lee family. Oh, how I had cursed the Grand Master for sending me to this place, and why? Because Mrs. Lee, nicknamed 'The Witch' by Haytham, would never allow him in his home, let alone accept the invitation I was about to give her. I can still hear his voice ringing in my head.

'Do not let yourself get discouraged by their awful maid. You can trample over her if you must.'

Well, since when did Haytham let his feelings get the better hand of him?

'I couldn't care less about that maid. It's all the way to bloody Pennsylvania, Haytham. It will take me two weeks to get there.'

'Then you should better be off, then, wouldn't you?'

Oh, that triumphant smirk. How he could send an almost 18 year old girl all alone on her way to a part of the colonies I'd never been before is beyond me. I tried one last time to change his mind.

'But we will discontinue our training…'

He did not even allow me to end my sentence.

'The sooner you'll return, the sooner we'll resume your training.'

There it was then. I had no choice in the matter but to follow the path to Charles Lee's manor in the midst of Pennsylvania. I took the best horse in our stables and set off. It had not been amazingly eventful, I can tell you that. I stayed at different taverns on my way, only once did I have to set up a camp. Of course I was used to sleeping outdoors, but there had always been plenty of men and women to protect me. This once, there was not even a wall to secure me from the wild animals.

It did not matter though. No wolf, bear or puma dared to thread closely to fire. Honestly, animals were not my greatest fear. It were human-beings that meant real danger. A bear will only attack if he is hungry or threatened. A human-being will attack at any time he pleases. I was aware of that fact when I was only a little girl, and that knowledge became more prudent as I became older. And I would soon discover that not only applied to men, but to women also.

The door to the manor cracked open, revealing a boring looking maid. She was in her mid-twenties, brown-haired and rather plain.

'Good afternoon,' she said stiffly while taking me in from head to toe, which made me feel uncomfortable.

'You must excuse me, I've had a long trip,' I said swiftly upon seeing her disgusted look.

'I'm sure that must be it, then,' she said with an air of disapproval. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to smack that smug-looking face, but before I could she added: 'What is your business here, miss…?'

'Sofia Bright. I'm a business associate of Mrs. Lee's husband. I'd like to hand her an invitation.'

'What kind of invitation?' The woman squinted as she examined my face.

'That's none of your business,' I said dismissively, having trouble to keep my voice even. I glared threateningly at her, making it quite clear not to elaborate on her question any further. She considered me for a moment before pulling the door open. As I entered the premises without her explicit permission, she analysed the wide arrange of weapons I was carrying with me. My horse, which was bound to a beam next to the entrance of the manor, was decorated with a great assortment of knives and pistols, and my favourite sword hung from the saddle. I was, of course, wearing my father's Hidden Blade, although I hardly expected her to recognize the device. My bow hung over my shoulders, along with the arrows.

'Please wait here,' mentioned the woman as she indicated towards a chair in the corner of the entrance hall. I complied immediately, craving for the feel of a comfortable chair. I jumped into the seat a little too eager, receiving an awkward look from the maid before she left the hall to search for her mistress.

Charles had made himself a comfortable home, I can give him that much. The entrance hall was tiled with white marble, the walls were decorated with carpets depicting stories of mythical heroes. I was about to decipher their stories, entertaining myself with the remembrance of the tales as a well-dressed Mohawk entered the hall through a door on the left side of the majestic stairway. She descended it almost teasingly slow, taking me in as I gaped at her. Never in my life had I seen a Mohawk woman in colonial dressing. Well, that was not true. William's common law wife Molly Brant also wore colonial dresses, but she still wore jewellery that defined her native background. And Mohawk women often mistook English tea cosies for hats, but I wonder if you can categorise those under 'clothing'.

None of those could be found on Charles Lee's wife. She wore a pink dress with an obvious corset around her waist, high lightening the wide skirt. It surprised me she could even walk. Her black her was curled and flowed down her back.

For Mohawk standards, she could be considered beautiful. I wondered why Charles, of all people, ended up marrying an outmost desirable woman, seen from a Mohawk point of view. Was she also considered beautiful for English standards? I highly doubted that, seeing her explicit cheekbones and full brows.

'Mrs. Lee,' I said clearly, slightly bowing to her.

'You must be Sofia Bright,' she said kindly, surprising me with her knowledge of my identity. She read the amazement from my eyes, and added: 'No ordinary woman would wear colonial clothing with our traditional moccasins.' She pointed at my leather moccasins, and realised she was right. I duly noted her perceptiveness. And Charles' surprising talkativeness.

'Indeed,' I said, reaching out to shake her hand. She took it, and the softness of her hand grazed over my rough skin.

'You have the hands of a warrior,' she noted, inspecting my hand for a moment. 'Yet they are a tad too small.'

'No hand is too small to fit around the hilt of a sword, Mrs. Lee,' I commented, feeling uncomfortable. She let go of my hand.

'I guess that is true, yet I have no experience in that area,' she said calmly, smiling slightly as she turned. 'This way, Ms. Bright.' She lead the way over the stairs again, turning to the right. After passing a few hallways, we finally entered a cosy looking room, not too big nor too small. The walls were painted a warm red colour, the floor was made out of a dark kind of wood. A few candles were lit, yet it wasn't light enough to reveal the faces on the portraits on the walls. In the centre of the room were a few rich-looking couches, positioned in a triangular form.

'Please take a seat. I take it you must be tired from your journey all the way from New York.'

The older woman sat on the left couch, obviously expecting me to sit in the opposite one. As her comment was rhetorical, I decided to snuggle up on there, first placing my weaponry against the couch and kicking of my moccasins as not to spoil the velvety covers. Once I realised I had just done something completely against the English etiquette, I stared at her in shock, like a child searching for an reproachful look on her mother's face. Yet there was none to be seen. She smiled at me instead.

´I see that, despite Master Kenway´s endeavours to teach you colonial customs, his efforts remain fruitless?' If it weren't for the warm smile, I might have taken her comment for an insult. I smiled sheepishly at her.

'Not entirely,' I answered, sitting up straight. Once I was settled neatly, she took me in with her intelligent brown eyes.

'Charles has told me a great deal about you,' she began the conversation.

'None of which is positive, I presume,' I interrupted darkly. She laughed politely, calling her maid again. The maid must have second guessed her mistress' wishes, for she already carried a teapot in her hand. Pouring us some tea, she put the teapot on the table and decorated it with a tea cosy before she left.

'That is not true. He has spoken of your spirited enthusiasm for the Order.'

'Are you sure he said nothing on the line of "childish vigour"'?

'Perhaps,' she complied with a grin. 'But he has also told me of your bond to my people…'

'Our people,' I corrected her monotonously, making her lift a brow at me.

'Our people, right,' she said, her gaze full of wonder. A silence filled the room as she ordered her thoughts.

'I was born into the village most east of the Mohawk river –'

'The Wolf tribe?'

'No, the Bear clan,' I corrected. 'My mother had befriended the Clan Mother's daughter and because my father was an enemy of the English Army, he sought a place most unlikely the British would find his already pregnant wife. Then my mother was invited by the Clan Mother to join her village and everything seemed to fall in its place.'

The Mohawk woman sent me a contemplative look.

'Is that what your mother told you?'

'No,' I conceded. 'It was William Johnson who told me this story. He is a close friend of my father's.'

'I see,' she mused softly, and her thoughtful look made me slightly uncomfortable. It was time to change the subject.

'I was sent here to deliver you an invitation… of sorts,' I added as I remembered Haytham's utter dislike to write the letter. I felt in my pocket to grasp the invitation and handed it to her. She looked at it as though it was something rather disgusting, but took it nonetheless. 'Well well,' she murmured, breaking the Grand Master's seal and unfolding the letter. As her eyes glided over the slightly fumbled paper her expression grew darker with every sentence she read. A slight hint of humour could also be seen. As she was finished and folded the letter again, she pursed her lips in a brooding manner.

'And?' I asked curiously.

Her eyes darted back to me again, but did not lose their pensive expression.

'Are you aware of the content, miss Bright?'

'I believe it is an invitation to a family gathering of the highest ranking Templar members, Mrs. Lee,' I said politely. She let out an ironic laugh.

'That is what Haytham Kenway wants everyone to believe. However, we all know that he doesn't want to miss out on a chance to assemble the most powerful of his men to discuss God-knows-what and uses their families as a cover-up for his real intentions.'

I was at a loss for words when I eyed the furious Mohawk before me. Clasping the fragile paper of the letter too hard, it was reduced to a spoilt mess of crumpled paper. I had never seen or heard someone badmouthing Haytham like this. From what I had seen, he seemed to inspire only kindness in people. Of course I had realised when I met him that he was not a man to defy his authority, but no one ever even dared to disobey him, let alone challenge his power. I had seen the most powerful of men, such as Charles Lee, bow before Haytham and why shouldn't they? Haytham was the smartest man I had known, and his expertise was recognized by everyone. Why did she question his intentions? Before I knew it, the question was already leaving my lips.

'How come you abhor Haytham?'

She saw I was shocked by my own bluntness and replied sarcastically:

'How come you despise my husband?'

Good point. But it seemed she felt her own need to elaborate on this matter.

'Allow me to enlighten you, then.' Although she introduced her answer to my very question, she stood up from her chair. She seemed in need of some space to clear her mind. With an infinite gaze she pondered how to put her words to make me understand her position on Haytham. She closed her eyes as she touched her brow with the tips of her fingers. A dramatic sigh announced the beginning of her speech.

'When I met my husband, he was just beginning his career in the Army. Sent to the Frontier to discuss matters of property of land, and without any knowledge of native language, he was utterly helpless in the negotiations with my tribe. He grew frustrated easily, with the weight of an approaching war and his loyalty to the Army burdening him.' She laughed heartily, her warm brown eyes sparkling. 'Once in a while, when the lack of communication became too hard for him, he ran towards the lake and bathed the aggravation off his body. Rumour has it the water became so warm, the water boiled every time he bathed.' She snickered a few times before she realised she was telling me a story. Her laughter subsided, making place for a thoughtful frown.

'I found his youthful enthusiasm endearing and took pity on him when his well-meant diplomacy seemed to fail due to lack of communication. I sought him up and we met in the forest unbeknown to my tribe. Even though we didn't speak each other's language, we communicated with our hands and feet.' She smiled at the reminiscence of her love story and I wondered if those were the only body parts they used to communicate with. 'Eventually I could teach him some of my language, he taught me his. And during those lessons, we fell in love. We married a little while after and lived in New York when he wasn't called upon for duty.'

She looked at me for the first time since she began to tell her story. Her gaze was suddenly much darker, almost accusing as she glowered at me.

'That was before Haytham Kenway crossed the Atlantic Ocean. Charles had always been an ambitious man, he was determined for two, it seemed.' She shook her head. 'But when he met that foreign nobleman, I sensed he was bad news. Where Charles had been a loving and supporting husband, being at my side as long as his Colonel let him, he disappeared more and more often. First, he cared enough to explain himself, saying he was temporarily preoccupied with another cause than the Army. A better one, that is. But that temporary became permanent after a while, and I saw little of him. And when we met, I perceived a change in him that I could not comprehend. Or perhaps he had always been like that, and I didn't want to see it.' She sighed unhappily. 'Charles became secretive, and when I met Master Kenway, I understood why. While I can't deny the Grand Master's sense of authority, the very impression of him made Charles almost crawl on his knees and kiss his master's boots. He was a completely different person around Haytham, and I did not like that man one bit. No matter how diligent and respectful my husband seemed without the presence of that Templar, I cannot erase the mental picture of him lurking around the Grand Master to jump at the slightest opportunity to gain his favour. And that is not even the worst part. Can you imagine what it feels like if your husband, the man who is supposed to be your sentinel, puts the safety of his family, his promising career in jeopardy to become a spy for some lunatic?'

The poor woman was raising her voice every sentence, her cheeks flushing with anger. Although I could not help but feel relieved that even Charles Lee's wife mirrored my own suspicions about him, I felt sorry for her. When she plopped down on the couch rather unceremoniously, and held her head between her hands, I recognized she was on the verge of breaking down.

'I have two beautiful sons, around your age, that barely see their father because Mister Grand Chancellor has important business to take care of. So yes, I'll take your invitation, but not for the sake of Haytham Bloody Kenway and his Order. I will accept the invitation because for once, our sons will be giving the occasion to spend some consecutive days with their father.'

I did not dare to tell her Charles might not be able to give them his full attention during Christmas due to Templar related obligations. That might sadden her even more, and she had reached that point, the very verge of an enormous cry fit. Seeing the pristine cup of tea on the table before me, I reached over and downed it all at once. Luckily, Mrs. Lee did not see me for she had her right hand before her eyes.

'Well then, I'm glad to give Haytham an affirmative answer.' She nodded, and I sensed it was time for me to leave.

'It was – err, interesting meeting you, Mrs. Lee. I'm looking forward to seeing you on the 23rd of December.

'Much obliged,' she answered, and I could already hear the sob in her voice. Grabbing my moccasins and weaponry, I left the room quickly, but not so quick to make a hasty impression. As I closed the door discreetly, and started to make my way down the hallway, I was given such a shock that I let out a strained scream and dropped my moccasins.

There, right before me, stood one of the subjects of our conversation himself.

The ghostly blue eyes seemed lost in thought and although the orbs were cast upon me, he did not truly seem to see me. Well, Charles did not only disappear without a word, but he obviously also appeared without one.

Bending swiftly to pick up my shoes, I was torn between leaving – that seemed the better option- and waiting for Charles to say something. He was officially my boss, meaning I could not leave without his permission.

I have thought of Charles as an angry, scary man. Angry because he made it rather clear he didn't like me, and angry because his light blue eyes haunted me in my dreams. He had the same air of authority around him like Haytham, but whereas it seemed a natural quality for Haytham, Charles had forged the attitude, as though he was a weak imposter. Haytham could make someone comply with one look of his dark eyes, while Charles took it with force. It made Charles a hardened man, and his eyes seemed to convey: 'If you don't obey me, I'll hurt you' all the time. Perhaps that was just my perception. Whatever it was, that coercive look seemed scattered to little pieces as he stood before me. Instead, I saw a grief for things long since lost. I wondered how much he had heard, but that question seemed trivial at the moment. A pained man, finally realising the mistakes he had made during his lifetime.

'It may not be too late, Charles,' I muttered, voicing his doubts. For the first time, his eyes focused on me without a trace of contempt in them. He did not respond for there was nothing to say. I took his silence as a cue to leave. But before I was out of earshot he said loudly:

'Before you go, stock up on the food in the kitchen. And take the black stallion in the box on the far right. He's yours.'

It was a kindness I never deemed Charles Lee was capable of displaying.

**AN: I've written this chapter mostly for the purpose of showing Ubisoft is a complete historic liar. Though I've made up Charles Lee's love story, he was married to a Mohawk woman and had twins with her. Not much is known about her (I believe that is pretty much it), but I love the twist she can bring into the story. More so, I dislike the display of Charles as a one dimensional character. I hope you liked it!**

**Grand Chancellor: the official second-in-command in Templar terms. The Templar Order comprised of two domains, the political one and the army. The Grand Chancellor is responsible for the politics, and so is Charles in a way. **

**And also, I've rated the story M for future violence (hell, she's being trained by Haytham Kenway), and possibly sex. Just in case people were wondering. **


	8. Hidden Truth

_I am very sorry for the delay in updating. I knew what to write, but not exactly _how_. It may come as no surprise that this chapter turned out very differently that I had initially intended. I hope you all enjoy this one and feel free to comment. _

**Hidden Truth **

_Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth ~~ Buddha _

My first experience with a dead body occurred when I was 11-years-old. It would not be my last, but there was not one corpse I had left behind in my unstoppable path of destruction that still haunted my thoughts as that lifeless shell that used to contain my mother's spirit.

My mother was the kind of person that many mothers frowned upon: wild and free, more like a friend than a parent, kind, and carefree. While other women found it inappropriate I'd rather wield a bow than playing with a doll, my mother encouraged it from the moment I'd shown interest. Climbing trees, wrestling with the boys (that ensured me I'd always come home with one extra bruise for my collection), and hunting small animals—nothing was mad to her. I enjoyed it, having the luxury to go anywhere I choose without an over concerned parent in my wake. To be able to choose my own path, rather than one being created for me.

Unfortunately, there is always a reverse side to the medal. Where all the other mothers nurtured their children until their bellies were full and their smiles content, my mother had absolutely no idea what to do with me. What happened when my head was pumping with pain? She was at her wits' end. If I misbehaved? She stood with her mouth agape, unsure of what to do. In retrospect she encouraged the wrong behaviour, never quite knowing the very thin line between good and bad.

When she suddenly disappeared when I was about 5-years-old—leaving me in the care of the new mother Kanientí:io, who had her handful of crying child already—I did not expect her to come back. I was too young to fathom the consequences of her vanishing altogether, yet I felt lonely somehow. A loneliness that disappeared once my new mother took pity on me and cared for me like I was her own. What a surprise it was when—a year later—mother did come back, with a blonde man, handsome and intimidating, following in her wake. Mother resumed her role as my caregiver again—a role I had never deemed her worthy of after she absconded with this strange, foreign man. Keep in mind that the only pale person I had seen before that day was my mother. At least this man kept his distance, sensing I might think of him as the culprit of my mother's inability to be the mother I needed her to be. He evaporated as quickly as he appeared, resurfacing every once in a while, sometimes accompanied by other equally intimidating men, for they were broad-shouldered, more so than the average Mohawk warrior. Their white, fully cloaked attire did nothing to ease my nerves and no matter how friendly the men were, I shied away from any contact, keeping to my Mohawk friends almost entirely.

Their presence became more familiar after that horrifying attack on our village when I was 7-years-old. It was then that my second—or perhaps my first, in some perspective—mother died and her young son was left without a primary caregiver. The boy, Ratonhnhaké:ton, visibly diminished from a spirited, full-of-life boy to a shadow of what he once was. He did not play anymore, did not eat or smile, and the Clan Mother had lost all hope on her grandson. She was probably cursing herself for calling the boy 'He whose life is scratched', for where his name was first a reminder of his fatherless existence, he had to bear to live without a mother as well. But the toddler did not live. He was slowly dying on the inside, his life wavering out of him like a slowly extinguishing fire. I watched him every day: hollow, joy-deprived eyes staring back at me. It was only when he became so thin that he could fit through a rabbit's hole that I could muster up the courage to approach him. I had lost so many important people in my life already—I could no longer watch him starve himself.

Perhaps that was what bounded us for the rest of our lives. Two children who carried too many burdens on their tiny shoulders, seeking to elevate themselves of their problems, if only for a little while. Little did we know that the weight could only increase from that moment on and that there would come a time that we couldn't share the load. For the coming ten years, however, we became inseparable. We distracted each other from the absence of our mothers. We ate together, hunted together, slept in the same longhouse, and most of the time in the same bed. That way the person who could scare the monstrosities in our dreams away was sleeping right next to the other.

'Pssst, little girl.'

It happened that same year. The man I was so afraid of hunched on his knees beside my bed. How could I have missed him? I was, and am still, a very heavy sleeper, but that night, sleep wouldn't pay me a visit. Even in the dimness of the sunset I could spot his flashing bright teeth, his smile wide and disarming. I was alarmed at first, but upon seeing that smile, I could only warm up to him. Pushing myself up at my elbows, I watched the blonde man in curiosity.

Seeing he had my full attention, the smile slowly disappeared into a thoughtful half-smile, his keen blue eyes narrowing. My heartbeat picked up at that notion, unsure of what that man wanted from me. Before that moment he had not once paid me any mind. Sometimes he stole a glance in my direction, and at others it seemed he had wanted to speak to me, thinking better of it at the last moment.

'Do you know who I am?' he said after a while, speaking softly as not to wake up my sleeping partner. He studied my features very carefully. I had the impression that nothing would escape that man, not a single breath. I shook my head slowly, eliciting a low sigh from him.

'As I thought,' he said, with a tinge of disappointment dripped in his voice. Then, on a different note, he went on, 'You look so much like your mother.'

I looked questioningly at him. I've been told that often. When he lifted a hand to softly hold my chin to rotate my face in the steadily stronger-growing light of the sun, a breath caught alarmingly in my throat. My eyes were glued upon his, eyes wandering over my pale skin. He chuckled, a warm, low sound, when he caught sight of my defying stare.

'The same stubborn look,' he remarked and added, almost as an afterthought, 'but not her colour of skin.'

That was true. While my mother was undoubtedly paler than the others in the village, I was much paler than she was. My skin was as good as white, safe for the freckles on my cheeks. The man before me was much darker than I was—his skin tanned from years in the sun. I knew my skin could never tan as his: it knows only two colours, red and white, the former pestering my skin almost every summer, when my mother forgot to decorate the white with wet soil.

The man seemed to be deep in thought, only awakened when Ratonhnhaké:ton violently stirred beside me. It seemed to remind him of something, as he took my hand and pulled me to my feet. An idea played in his mind as his joyful blue eyes lightened.

'Come, Sofia,' he whispered.

Tugging my hand gently, he guided me out of the longhouse. My feet dragged me along with him almost of their own accord. Curiosity won from the fear too quickly for my own good and I was soon following him towards an open space in the woods. The guards watched him warily but didn't stop him as he took me from the village. One followed us all the way to his camp just in case. It is strange really, how I never wondered why they let me be taken by this apparent stranger. I guess I was too young, or I didn't care. Because what he had in store for me was to appealing for me to question. Once in the open space, surrounded by two tents, he let go of my hand and threw me a long, thin branch. Staring quizzically at it, I wondered what I was supposed to do with it. The sun was bright enough by now to shine through the trees, and he gave me an expectant look when he drew forth another long stick and held it in front of him, his position reminiscent of...

I gasped, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place. I smirked at him, having forgotten all my reservations, and mimicked the stance I had seen for many times.

'Good,' he muttered most approvingly, smiling bright beyond himself. 'Show me,' he said a little louder, his hand beckoning me to strive forward.

I did, trying my best to imitate the moves I had seen plenty of times performed by the defenders of our lands. I was young, brash, but very quick. For the next hour the hollow sound of wood snapping against wood could be heard, my feet crumpling the dry leaves underneath our feet, the stranger's smile encouraging. All the while a few more guards came to view our—what I know it was now—first training session. They looked alarmingly at us, but did not dare to intervene, finding a father's authority much more important than their cultural values. Women were supposed to be strong, but fighting was for men. He returned me to the village when we were done, then continued to collect me every day at sunset. Every day he demanded more from me, even going as far to slightly graze my skin when I wasn't paying attention. He taught me to anticipate my partner's moves, aim for the weakest spots, and handle my 'sword' with the greatest care.

Slowly the days turned darker, leaves growing thicker and thicker on the ground, and I began to start wearing furs to protect my naked skin from the cold. My techniques improved, never disappointing the man I was slowly but steadily growing attached to. I never learned his name ("call me 'papa'"), but I did not need to. One day, while we were practicing my aim with a bow, a solemn stranger on a horse approached the village. He, too, was clad in white. A sword dangled from his saddle, with two flintlocks on his thighs. His face was shadowed by a hood, which he took off when he deemed the distance safe. Very short, blond hair, a strong, masculine jaw and a complexion strongly resembling mine; I knew from the moment I caught sight of him he was bad news. My trainer's eyes became nervous, but did not attempt to protect me.

'Liam,' he breathed almost inaudible to me. The stranger nodded, avoiding the use of a name as if on purpose. His stern gaze focused first on 'papa', but strayed towards my direction almost immediately. His gaze softened somewhat, perhaps the corners of his lips were pulled upwards. His friendly expression urged me not to be afraid, but I crept slowly behind the other's strong form regardless, for the stranger's physique was no less intimidating.

'Can we speak freely?' the man spoke, training his eyes on my sparring partner, but inclining his head towards me. His accent was foreign, not entirely unlike papa's, but different still. Anxious eyes turned towards me, doubt evident in the deep blue, but still nodded. When the man began to explain his arrival, he extended his hand backwards towards me, and I took the proffered hand. He closed his hand around it in a comforting manner.

'Your presence among the natives is no longer safe. The Templars are hunting us down one by one and with the traitor, who knows how long it will take for them to find your hiding spot.'

'There is not a place on the world where we remain in peace, Liam. What would you have me do, that I take my refuge in the Homestead?' His voice quivered, wary of his superior's order. But the man shook his head.

'No, that was not my intention. Achilles and I will be leaving for the Arctic shortly—there is no one who will remain in the village for a few months.'

The unspoken question hung uncomfortably in the air, and I wondered if they did not dare to speak because of me.

'Continue to serve William Johnson,' the odd-speaking man continued. Now his smile broadened and he bared his teeth. 'You need to hide in plain sight.'

'But what if Sh-'

The smile broke immediately, his features contorting somewhere between a grimace and disgust.

'His priorities do not lie with Johnson's lackeys,' he snapped, a tone that did not suit his calm demeanor. I flinched from his sudden outburst, but the hand squeezed reassuringly. Seeing my reaction, the stranger shrugged, his voice apologizing as he continued, 'What I mean to say is, there are more pressing matters at hand.' He sighed, carefully avoiding what exactly those matters were. 'It'll raise suspicion if you don't return into Johnson's service. You've lingered too long already. Return within a week, keep us informed about his activities and stay close. You know when to act if you suspect any irregularities.'

'I understand, Liam. Thank you for your trouble. Wouldn't it have been easier to send a messenger?' He made sure he sounded as though he had preferred that messenger above him.

'We're running a little short on messengers, nowadays, I'm afraid.' Turning his attention towards me, he spoke a little gentler, 'You'll grow into a beautiful woman one day, Sofia.' He smiled, and added, 'and with an aim like that, you'll be a woman to reckon with. Seems you've inherited at least one trait from your father.'

I opened my mouth to retort several questions, but was cut off by a loud hissing sound. My mentor made a violent gesture towards the other man and it only seemed to amuse him.

'Very well. Take care, my brother. And remember, hide in plain sight.' My captured hand felt the tremble in the other, the constrained anger obvious in the tensed line of his back. The man pulled his hood over his head again, but not before he had given me a cheeky wink.

Papa was glad to see the back of him. He relaxed the second the man was out of sight, turning towards me. He considered me for a moment or two, before returning me to my mother. I was full of questions, questions he dismissed with: 'I'll explain you when you're older, you won't understand.' When he had settled me together with Ratonhnhaké:ton, he took my mother outside the longhouse. I'll never forget her face the moment she returned—after what seemed ages—inside, without company. Her beautiful, green eyes were swollen and red, tears streaming helplessly down her face. She shook from head to toe, her hands convulsing terribly.

'He'll return,' she whispered as if in trance, trying to convince herself. 'He will return.'

And return he did, though he did not stay for longer than a week at a time. We resumed my training and once more he offered me the structure my mother had neglected to give me. Perhaps he became the parent I had missed out on for so long, and I noticed how I was longing for his return time after time. Until once, he did not return at all.

It is now, almost twenty years later, I appreciate the severity of mother's suffering without the presence of my father. Whenever he turned up again, she seemed so happy, a smile permanently plastered on her face. She would braid my hair after combing it carefully, encouraged my training as a swordswoman and appeared to repair the damage she left in her absence. Of course, however, our relationship was henceforth beyond any repair.

So, was I surprised when I found her lifeless body hanging from the highest beam in the longhouse after it had been at least a year since my father stopped visiting us? Perhaps not. Horrified, yes, but her premature ending was anything but surprising. After all, her abandonment was all I was ever used to. Her final act to take herself from this world seemed rather natural to her, like this was the way it was supposed to be, her fate. My enigma of a mother took her own life, but what for? Even as a disappointed child, I could hardly believe her suicide was just for the sake of abandoning me. Apart from her whimsical character, she had always given me the impression of love. Her eyes were fond, her voice as sweet as honey when she addressed me—spoke of me. I could do no wrong in my mother's eyes: I was her beautiful, stubborn daughter and she was proud when it came to my potentials. I was to do great things in my life: I had to brains, the strength and the beauty to do so.

It was with this promise in my heart that I accepted Haytham's offer to train me—into what, I had no idea then. Even then, Haytham Edward Kenway came across as a powerful man—intimidating as my father had been when I first lay my eyes on him. Haytham's eyes were filled with the same expectation my father had shown me so long ago. And perhaps that was precisely what I needed from a caregiver. My mother only spoke of high things for me, Haytham made it happen. Mother was more in need of guidance from me than the other way around. Haytham lead me with a steady hand, never requiring too much from me, sensing perfectly well where my boundaries lie and pushing them further and further slightly, with the greatest expertise.

And yet, even with the striking absence of a father figure in my life (a mother figure may be up for debate), Haytham never quite became a parent to me. He was more the guiding hand I needed in my life. In those first two—three years I felt my body becoming stronger every day and indeed, when I looked in the mirror one day to fit into one of those ugly, but necessary dresses, the seamstress tutted at my naked form.

'No woman should be built as such,' came her curt comment. Furrowing her eyebrows, she took one of her smallest corsets and wrapped it around my waist. What came next was a moment I wouldn't forget for the rest of my life. All air was pushed from my lungs as she pulled on the laces of that monstrocity of a clothing.

'Stop!' I pleaded for mercy, trying to pull away from her grasp. However, the woman was surprisingly strong and I was significantly weakened with a thing like that robbing me from all my air.

'Just—one—moment,' she gasped, pointing her words between tugs, each punctuated

with renewed vigour.

I gasped—feeling like a fish on the dry sand of a beach. When her tugs and pulls came to a halt I was allowed to draw shallow breaths—which I knew would in the long run give me a dizzy headache from the shortage of oxygen. The woman ignored my growls and glared with a slightly amused roll of her eyes.

'Don't be disagreeable girl—Master Kenway will surely be waiting,' she scoffed when I refused to lift my arms for her to pull on the pinkish dress. The hell with Haytham. If he seriously expected me to play nice with him after he put me through this, he had another thing coming. However, an angry Haytham in this small shop was not appealing at all, so I complied and did whatever she demanded from me. Henceforth my wrath will only be regarded directly to him, and not played out through this seamstress.

So when I was all dressed up and made up according to the ridiculous colonial etiquette, I strode outside, greeting the patient, older man with a glare. Haytham looked as immaculate as ever: his handsome features shadowed by his usual, only slightly fancier due to the formal situation, tricorne hat. His brown eyes studied my overly done attire, a smile tugging on the end of his lips as he saw my pouted ones, as discontent I was with his style of choice. True, the skirt was not as wide as etiquette dictated, but surely I was in no need of a corset? My breasts screamed in protest as they were claimed by tight cotton, my body in need of more air.

'Everything went according to plan, I see,' he said lightly.

_Your_ plan, I thought stubbornly, but kept the comment to myself. My glare spoke volumes already. Instead, I walked as gracefully as I could to the waiting carriage and only opened my mouth when Haytham opened the door to it.

'Always a gentleman,' I remarked coldly, making sure my discontent shown through my words.

'Only when you're dressed every bit a lady,' he replied mockingly, taking my hand to help me in the carriage.

I won't ever dare to admit it, but if he hadn't held my hand, I'd tripped over my own feet the first step I took in that bloody carriage. That dress was limiting in more than one way. It was so hard to walk with your legs feeling disconnected from your body.

So when I unceremoniously slung myself down on the seat (which was not comfortable, not at all), I turned my head from the tall Englishman, who analysed me with increasing interest.

After a while though, the bumpy road blending with the wooden seat actually began to hurt, and I could no longer hide my discomfort. I gave the man an earful of my misery.

'Would you stop being so melodramatic?' Haytham looked warningly at me, though his voice did not have the sharp edge to suit his gaze.

'How about I put this tormenting thing around your body and lace it tightly? I can barely move, let alone breathe...'

Yes, I knew I was bordering on full-blown insolence, but I could simply not bring myself to care. Never in my whole life had I been so uncomfortable. I'd gladly trade a few nasty sword wounds to this bloody dress. At least then I was dying fast instead of this slow death. Luckily for me Haytham had decided to ignore my cheek, and he lifted the dark curtain from the carriage window to estimate our progression.

'Ah, we are nearly there. We've just crossed the last road towards Broadway,' he said and added with a mischievous glance, 'your misery is drawing to a close.'

'Fantastic,' I sneered.

I held the edges of my seat tightly to ensure my stability on the painful wooden seats. I held my breath as we rode over another gap in the road, launching me almost on Haytham's lap. The Templar was forced to hide his amusement and looked away, veiling his face with his hat. I sent him an annoyed gaze and steadied myself again, praying to whatever spirit in the hopes that the road won't become any bumpier, before I was actually thrown into the man's lap, probably entertaining the Grand Master to no end as he seemed delighted with my distress. I was torn from my musings when Haytham rang the bell to alert the carriage driver. Giving him a puzzled look, the carriage came to a halt quickly, the driver trying to open the door for his costumers, but Haytham had opened it before the man could.

'That would suffice for now,' he said, handing the man a coin, who gave Haytham the same puzzled look as I did. 'Quickly now, Sofia,' the Englishman added as he noticed I sat dumbfounded in the carriage. 'I was under the impression you were in a rare need to escape the confinements of this coffin on wheels, or am I mistaken?'

He didn't need to repeat himself. I took the proffered hand and stepped down the carriage as quickly as this dress allowed.

It turned out this way of journeying was not much better than my previous ride. I was forced to take tiny steps to suit the suffocating dress, whilst trying to keep up with the long legs of the Londoner next to me. When I quickly took his arm to keep him by my side, it earned me another amused look, but I could not care. His strength helped me to stabilize and the warmth served as a nice blanket against the winter cold.

'It must be a rather alarming prospect for you,' said Haytham all of a sudden, 'to come face-to-face with the entire Colonial Rite.'

Yes, thank you. Rub it in—that will make me feel better.

'I have met some of them before—' A slightly concerned look passed Haytham's features at the memory. '—Jack Weeks, William Johnson—' Who I regarded as _that filthy slaver_, '—Charles Lee, and Thomas Hickey.' Or rather t_hat_ _creepy man _and _the drunk Irishman. _

'Oh, and that all went very well, didn't it?' said Haytham with an unpleased look. 'And you haven't even met Benjamin Church...' he said with a sigh. 'Fortunately,' he began in a dark tone, 'John and William will take their whole orphanage of children with them. Perhaps it may do you well to interact with your peers, since you rarely do so within the Fort.'

'I'm fine, Haytham. I'd like to concern myself with more pressing matters,' I said, pulling on his arm playfully before I laid my cold cheek on his warm shoulder.

'As you wish. Remember, I can't entertain you all afternoon. There are visitors from our branch within the Order as well as others. And I, as the only Grand Master amongst them...´

´Other American Rites have no Grand Master?' I asked, interrupting, too curious to wait for Haytham to end his sentence. He sighed disapprovingly, but made no comment about my impatience.

'No, it seems I'm the only one.' Somewhere in his deep voice was an unmistakable proud tone in that posh English accent. 'The Grand Master of the Spanish colonies died by the hands of my father—you can imagine the joyous encounter that awaits us—and the Spanish Rite is still in dispute over his successor. The French have never seen it fit to elevate their leading Master Templar to the rank of Grand Master.'

I opened my mouth to ask him to elaborate on this subject, but on that exact moment we took a turn around the corner towards the Theatre... and there I stood, amazed at the many carriages waiting in line to unload themselves. Most of them Templars, I reminded myself. Templars I had to impress.

'There is no doubt in my mind that you'll dazzle them all with your infallible charm.'

Haytham grinned at me, making sure I'd catch the teasing tone. There was hardly any charm in my correspondence with others, and my eloquence is infamous in the fort—for not being present in my entire array of qualities.

'Come now, we do not want to disappoint them, do we?'

And with that he led me towards the entrance, for most it was only the entrance of the Theatre, but for me it was the beginning of an existence as a Templar.


End file.
